Page 44 of The Captain
In Miami, he’d been three states and a lifetime away from my beaches. Here, I could look up and have my father at my shoulder.
That was a plus.
We waded. The first cool slap of water at mid-thigh jolted everything that had been stuck since the dune. I knelt and slid my palm along the animal’s side. Skin warm under the film of sand. Breaths too fast. The little whale made a sound like a dream she wasn’t done having.
“Bonjour, petite,” I murmured. “On va y arriver.”
The next wave broke. We took the rise under the belly and slid the sling into the breathless space before the water fell again. The whale shuddered when the canvas touched her, and then did not fight.
Good girl. Don’t fight me. Fight the rest.
“Rate?” I called without looking.
Tamika glanced, counted, answered. “High but climbing down.” She cut a quick grin at the crowd loud enough to carry. “Don’t be heroes, folks,” she said. “Be helpful and stay back.”
From the corner of my eye I saw a phone begin to rise. One of Atlas’s men drifted across the person’s line of sight, his body like a curtain casually pulled. The phone thought better of itself and dropped.
The radio on my belt chirped. Different tone. McGuire.
“Allard?”
“Go.”
“I know you’re busy on the stranding, but you’ll want this. I’ve confirmed—all U.S. Navy assets are clean for your window.We’re tracking a separate narrow-band source offshore with a non-commercial profile. We’re escalating a joint investigation.”
I closed my eyes a second longer than I should have. The sand under my knees felt honest. The universe tilted toward something that sounded like a plan.
I didn’t want the Navy to be my enemy. I hoped to God that McGuire’s information was accurate.
“Leanne?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “We still have to pry open some boxes that don’t want to be opened.” Her tone softened. “But you don’t have to set us on fire today.”
I hung the radio back and looked down at the little whale. The breath coming from her blowhole misted my wrist. I used my thumb to wipe a grain of sand from the rim.
We waited for the next rise, shifted weight, moved the sling two inches higher at the pectoral. My father’s forearms flexed. Tamika adjusted her feet to make herself bigger than the water by sheer stubbornness. The whale settled into our hold the way bodies do when they recognize you’ve decided not to drop them.
A wave lifted my hips and for a blink the world went underwater quiet. The hush wrapped my head, and in it I heard my own voice.Breathe.
A part of me hated that it was his, too. But I loved that it worked.
“On my count,” I said. “Three breaths then we move her into the skiff. One.”
The whale exhaled, ragged but there. Somewhere behind me a child asked if this was a shark. Tamika said, without turning, “No, baby. She’s a little whale who took a wrong turn.”
“Two,” I said. The second breath came cleaner.
A soft scuff on the sand to my left. I thought for a stupid second it would be Jacob, big and sure at my shoulder. It wasn’t. It was one of Atlas’s men wordlessly offering the stern line toward my father. The ease of that exchange—a tide passing a fish downstream—tightened something in my chest that wasn’t fear.
“Three,” I said, and we lifted together.
Canvas whispered. Water gave, then tried to take. We answered with angle and patience instead of muscle. In two breaths we had her bow in the skiff. In three we had the weight centered and the blowhole high with the shield settled over the spray. The boat took her like it had been waiting.
“Tamika, ride in,” I said. “Keep her low. Dock in ten. Miguel’s prepping the quiet pen now.”
